Liar
by Harp Strumming Choirboy
Summary: Demons lie. Demons lie. Demons lie. Demons lie and read your mind and lie more.


Demons lie. Demons lie. Demons lie. Demons _lie _and_ read your mind_ and _lie more._

That's what Dean and Sam had been telling everyone they ran into since he'd met them. He knew this. He _knew_ it. It's _burned into his mind _like the periodic table.

"… M-mom?" His voice broke, and he's aware. No one's in the room with him. He's alone with this shape-shifter. He'd been told to scope out this building, and call on this… portable radio thing if he found anything. Said radio thing was on the floor now, forgotten at his feet. It's perfectly reasonable, the way he's reacting. He hasn't seen his mother since he was five, and after trying to bring her back that night he was _almost_ sure that he'd never see her smile again. He was positive the night he burned down their family house of the same thing.

He ignored the slow ringing of the radio (they called it a _cell phone_, he thought) as his mother stepped forward. Of course he's never experienced this; other shape-shifters (read: Envy, this is the first mind-reading shape-shifter he's run into) had no idea what his mother looked like. He stumbled back a moment in pure shock. He hadn't expected her to move, really; he thought it was just his imagination.

"My little man…" Her voice was soft, and soothing, and beautiful, and he couldn't help but stumble forward toward her open arms as she held them out. Soft, loving, and welcoming… He hadn't experienced these emotions since the day he burnt down his house. Everyone here had been cold towards him, untrusting and cold. His only family back home was Al, Winry, and Granny Pinako; Al was incapable of showing emotion physically, and he was a little spiky to give a hug, while Winry and Granny… he was afraid to love them, afraid of what the military would do.

He came forward a step, maybe two, before he stopped. He remembered why he's here, what they're hunting, and what Dean and Sam had always told everyone.

Demons lie. Demons lie and read minds and lie more.

His eyebrows turned upward and pulled inward, and he stumbled back.

"Edward?" Her voice was questioning, and it seemed hurt.

"You… you're not…" He tried, fighting to get out.

The phone rang again and he looked at it. He considered leaning down to retrieve it before a slender foot clad in a white cloth flat reached out and stepped on it, dragging it toward his mother.

Ed swallowed thickly, remembering that he had a pistol in his flesh hand. A pistol with a silver bullet. A silver bullet that, if shot in the right area, would kill his mother.

The question was, could he watch his mother die again? How many times had it been, twice now? He'd already killed her one of those times, and he's going to do it again? Why was it that he kept hurting the people he loved? He killed his brother, and his mother…

"Why are you crying, honey? What's wrong?" Ed flinched as a hand rested on his cheek, caressing the wet flesh. She was right, the man (who are we kidding?) noticed. He was border-line wailing as he quivered, and _sobbed_ and _whimpered_ like the pathetic mess that he was.

"I can't do it…" He mumbled out, the sentence nearly inaudible. "I can't do it, Mom, I can't do it… I can't…"

"Can't what, honey?" She asked, trying to pull him closer.

"I can't… kill you, again…"

He lifted his head, met her eyes, and wrapped his right arm around her, bringing the left between them slowly.

So, the blond held his mother tightly against him and put the barrel of the gun to her chest as she (well, not really she, he knew that all along) struggled.

There was the dull sound of gunfire, a splatter of blood, and a loud _thump _as the image of his mother hit the ground. A second_ thump_ (along with a small clank of metal hitting wood) followed as the long-haired blond hit the ground as well. He cradled his face in cupped hands and wailed and sobbed as loud as he wanted.

A good minute later, the phone started ringing again. Composing himself, the blond steadied his unstable weight with his gloved metal hand and retrieved the phone with his left. He swallowed thickly and wiped the scarlet drops from the screen before pressing the small green button and putting it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Dude, why the fuck haven't you been picking up? Sam's been having a heart attack worrying about you! We were just about to come in—"

"No, don't. I already killed it, so…"

"Oh, you did?" Ed listened as Dean pulled away from the phone and transferred the news to his brother before his voice got clearer. "Well come on, man. We have another job a little ways away. We better get going. It's a good three hour drive."

"Okay, coming…" He pulled the phone from his face and pocketed it. Standing (with a little bit of effort) he made his way toward the door, trying not to look at his first kill in the _hunting_ business. He paused, though, as he saw a reflective surface to his left.

Looking toward the mirror, he caught himself red-face, still crying, and covered in blood.

Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from the mirror and ran down the stairs, grateful to leave the house.

"Hey, man! Good job in there!"

"Yeah, thanks." Ed pulled the door open, plopping into the backseat and sliding into the middle, closing the door behind him.

"What's up?" Sam asked, turning in his seat to examine Ed's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" He responded coolly, giving one of his best (fake) grins. "Tried to blind me with some ashes in the fireplace." There'd been a fireplace, he remembered giving a paranoid glance into it with a sweep of the house. Ed rose his left hand to rub at his eyes gently. "Still trying to get it out. Made my eyes water a bit, you know?"

Sam accepted the excuse with a shrug, Dean turned long enough to give the blond a pat on the head before they took off, the radio blaring one of Dean's 'AC/DC' (_whatever the hell that is_) songs. Ed, confident that they wouldn't be turning around any time soon, freely let himself break down in the back seat, turning his head to look out the window at the trees as the flew past. It was justified, he told himself; he had good reason to be crying. He just killed his mom for the third time.

He wondered, briefly, why it still hurt. That was a ridiculous question, though, he realized as he thought about it. She was the most amazing woman in the world—no, every world. Anyone that had the privilege of knowing her knew that. She was sweet and kind and caring and loving and beautiful. She was everything…

The only thing keeping him together in pieces was that he just saved dozens of lives, and it wasn't a person. It was a monster. A monster that looked like his mother. Still, though, it wasn't okay. It wasn't okay, and there was blood on his hands, and it wasn't okay. He felt terrible, he felt like a killer, a murderer.

He was glad for the music. The loud, pounding (badass, he would later admit) music that drowned out his small choked gasps for breath.

Demons lie. Demons lie, and they read your mind, and they lie more. Demons lie, and they read your mind, and they lie more, and they pose as your family.

(Later he would tell himself, mind logical as always, that shape-shifters weren't really demons, but they still lied. They were monsters. Demons were monsters. What's the difference?)

It was a monster. A monster, a monster, a monster. And he'd just have to keep telling himself that, or he wasn't going to get over it.

He certainly didn't during that car ride, he'd sat in the back seat and stayed quiet as the brothers talked about the next case and sung along to the various songs that Dean had in his box of 'cassette tapes.' He tuned them out and instead listened to the voice in his head, telling him to keep his brother safe, telling him that Al would forgive him for not saving his stuffed cat from the river soon enough, telling him that it was just a scratch, telling him to be more careful next time, telling him that she loved her _little man_.

It would take a while for him to get over it, or to get past it far enough that he could function properly again at least, because who could ever really get over killing their mom a third time?


End file.
